The Light

When I was young, my father was a volunteer firefighter. He kept his pager on top of his old wooden bureau.

He’d turn the volume down low at night, but I would still wake as it crackled to life. The fire-call would come in: KD941 to Noroton, Noroton Height’s Fire Department. 

I would feel his feet on the floor as he’d climb out of bed. I would count his footsteps down the hall-one, two, three, four, five, six-as he walked towards the stairs. I would vibe with the rumble of the garage door opening. Strain to hear the last retreat of his car.

I’d lay in bed for hours waiting to hear my dad creep back up to his bedroom. I’d breathe in relief and settle into my little single bed by the window; the smell of charred wood filled the house. I’d give in to sleep at the squeak of water running through the pipes to the shower.

I got glasses when I was seven years old. 

For the next 15 years, my eyes would worsen progressively at every eye doctor appointment. Not by huge amounts, mind you, but enough. 

20 years later, I was 7.5 months pregnant when I moved from the city to the suburbs. Not long after moving into our new home, my husband took a two week trip that led him to the other side of the world.

I was alone in the house for the first time. After living in Boston for ten years, I was shocked by how dark the darkness was. There were no apartment lights. No cabs. No sounds of ambulances. No rumbling of laughter or arguing from neighboring apartments.

I remember the first night I took out my contact lenses and got under the covers. I could hear everything.

Seriously, I might just as well have had super powers. There were gears in my ears and those mechanisms were churning.

I could detail every creak. Every cricket.

Every boogeyman sneaking up the stairs.

I was terrified.

Not only was my hearing superhuman, my sense of movement was, too. I swear, my body registered the settling of the house. I felt the road vibrate as a car drove by.

Now, at 34, I am used to how I see when I am not wearing glasses or contact lenses. And how I see is not well at all. With glasses off, I can not see the numbers on the bedside clock. If you were to send me a text in the middle of the night, I would have to hold the phone about a centimeter away from my nose to make the letters come into focus.

I blame my vision for my intense awareness-and often fear-of the dark.

Have you ever thought about why we watch movies in blackness? Other than it being really cool, it is because dulling or eliminating one of our senses sharpens or heightens one (or more) of our others. Think about it, most often we will turn the lights down when spending more intimate time with one we care for. Sometimes we do this out of shyness. However, most often it is because it allows us to turn down sense of sight and turn up sense of touch.

Increase sense of hearing.

Right now, with your eyes open, sit back and listen. You don’t have to do it for very long; for 30 seconds, wherever you are, listen to what is going on around you.

Try it again. This time close your eyes. Are the sounds more distinct? Do you notice something you hadn’t? Maybe the tag on your shirt? The feel of a breeze?

I used to do an exercise similar to what I just asked you to do above with my freshman students. I would use it to help them focus on identifying vibrant descriptors in their writing.

Sensory deprivation (or stimulation) is a technique many of us use to concentrate. For example, I require quiet to think clearly. I’m talking sound-proofed-vault-in-an-underground-library-in-a-snowstorm, silence.

 It is why I most prefer to write at my desk in the attic. I’m in another world up there.

Often, if I am somewhere where I need to think something complicated through and I can’t get the silence that I need, I will place my hands over my ears.

I need to shut out sound to hear my thoughts.

For others, it’s the opposite. Some need music to work. They swear it softens the sounds of everything else and hones focus.

Me? I’ll just end up listening to the words in the songs and get distracted.

Back to the darkness.

I fear all kinds.

Late at night driving, dark.

New England camping, dark.

Winter night need-to-bring-up-paper-towels-from-the-basement, dark. (I sprint up the stairs and kick the door closed behind me.)

I wonder though, if I had never had trouble with vision, would I still be afraid of what I couldn’t see? 

There’s the metaphorical question for us all:  Do we fear the darkness because we don’t know what’s there?

Aha, folks! There is the secret to being brave.

Just stand up,

walk over,

and turn on the light.